


Can't Fool a Spy, or Five Times others noticed how Phil felt about Clint, and One Time Clint did

by weepingnaiad



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awesome Pepper Potts, Bets & Wagers, Community: cottoncandy_bingo, Community: trope_bingo, Jasper Sitwell is too but he's adorkable at it, M/M, Maria Hill is a good friend, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Phil Coulson & Pepper Potts Friendship, Pre-Avengers (2012), Secret Crush, Trope Bingo Round 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/pseuds/weepingnaiad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Summary:</b> Phil Coulson was a professional, and a secret agent.  Despite his legendary undercover skills, he failed to conceal his feelings for a certain archer from his friends and co-workers until even Clint noticed how he felt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Fool a Spy, or Five Times others noticed how Phil felt about Clint, and One Time Clint did

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Art: Mad World](https://archiveofourown.org/works/942903) by [sian1359](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/pseuds/sian1359). 



> **Beta:** As ever, my brain twin, and soul sister, lj user abigail89, wrangled my words into something readable and coherent. I will never be able to convey my gratitude, bb. But, of course, I fiddle even after posting, so any mistakes are all on me.  
>  **Content Advisory:** none, really.  
>  **A/N:** My Avengers_rbb fill is set pre-Avengers, taking place before, during, and after the events of Iron Man and Thor. This also satisfies my Cotton Candy Bingo square _crush/infatuation_ and Trope Bingo square _bets/wagers._  
>  **A/N2:** Just have to say that I'm so excited for the gorgeous artwork that inspired this story. When I first glimpsed the piece, I knew I had to have it and made arrangements so that I was sitting at the PC refreshing and refreshing when the claims went live. Needless to say, I got it and it's been an utter delight working with lj user sian1359. This is a complete surprise for her and happens to be the flip side to her art. I do hope she enjoys it as much I love her art!  
>  **Disclaimer:** These are Marvel and Whedon's characters used in the spirit of creative commons. I promise to return them with smiles on.

  
**Mad World** by [sian1359](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/pseuds/sian1359)

Please go to her art masterpost, [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/942903), and leave her lots of love for this wonderful piece!

*~*

"Your obsession is showing, Agent," Nick said as he settled at parade rest, hands behind his back, to Phil's left.

Phil stiffened minutely, instantly aware that his subtle shift had been caught. He refused to take his eyes from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s latest recruit whose accuracy was beyond impressive, veering into the realm of impossibility, especially as he managed it all with a bow. And if Phil enjoyed watching the flex and pull of tendon and muscle more than this assignment called for that was his secret. Or it _was._ Still, Phil Coulson refused to acknowledge the truth in Nick's words.

"Thought my 'attention to detail' was the reason you assigned Barton to me, sir?" Phil kept his tone dry, just a hair short of outright sarcastic.

Nick snorted, making Phil's lips twitch despite himself.

"You're his handler, not creepy stalker, _Phil._ "

Nick's emphasis on his first name shifted the conversation and Phil tore his eyes from Barton to look at Nick, brow furrowed in question.

"Isn't being a stalker how we get the job done here at S.H.I.E.L.D.?" he asked.

Nick chuckled. "Tap that or don't. I don't give a flying fuck. But my one good eye is more important than any ten snipers. Even a smartass prodigious one."

Phil stilled, nonplussed. Before he could reply, Nick stalked from the observation deck, leather duster snapping behind him.

Phil's eyes returned to his asset, even Nick's rarely voiced concern unable to shake his assessing gaze.

~~*~~

Phil heard the door open, but he couldn't pull his eyes from Clint to see who had stepped into the hospital room. His lungs caught when Clint's breath stuttered; Phil's vision going gray at the edges until he remembered to breathe. He had to force himself to look away from Clint's chest, counting every shallow breath accompanied by the steady beep of the monitors the only things keeping him grounded. He catalogued every bump, bruise, and broken bone yet again, guilt weighing heavily on his heart. He couldn't move past the sight of his asset's -- _Clint's_ \-- broken body crumpled on that dirty cell floor. His only regret was the swift death he'd dealt Clint's captors.

His fingers twitched as they rested on the bed next to Clint's bandaged hand. He wanted to touch, needed the reassurance for himself, but he was afraid to, afraid to push himself on Clint. His asset had done well in S.H.I.E.L.D. over the past couple of years, but he was still wary, unsure, and distrustful. And Phil would do nothing to abuse the trust that Clint had already offered him.

"Phil?"

So it was Maria. Phil blew out a soft breath. "Hill?" he replied instead of turning to look at her. He was just too damned tired for verbal sparring.

It seemed like Maria might have understood that. Instead of demanding that he talk to her, she stepped closer, nearing until she rested a palm on Phil's shoulder. That was unusual enough to catch him off guard and he startled, glancing up at her, eyes blinking slowly.

"You won't do Barton any good if you collapse, Phil. Get that cut seen to. Then get some sleep."

"Is that an order?" He felt like arguing as anger surged in him. Barton shouldn't have been on that op. He damned sure shouldn't have been left high and dry when Hill knew there was the possibility of bad intel. And his rescue shouldn't have taken four damned days to coordinate and execute.

Phil whirled on Hill, ready to let her know just how much he did not appreciate her disregard for _his_ asset, but he stood too fast, and the world tilted.

Luckily, Maria was there to keep Phil from hitting the floor. She met his glare with a steady gaze. "You're ready to drop. Nearly did. You might have a concussion and you don't want that gash to get infected. Go." Her voice was quiet, filled with an uncharacteristic compassion. "We won't leave Barton unsupervised."

Phil pulled away slowly, carefully shaking his head. "I promised him--" he started.

Maria nodded. "Alright. I'll stay with him. If that will get you to look after yourself for twelve hours, then I'll sit here myself."

Now Phil was pretty certain he must have lost consciousness or fallen asleep. A dream was the only explanation for this gentle creature. Maria Hill did not appreciate Clint's snark, his unorthodox manner, or his sly sense of humor. The deputy director of S.H.I.E.L.D. did not sit with assets, or even friends.

"Phil, I promise. Barton won't wake up alone. I'll watch out for him. No one else. Now go." She tilted her chin toward the door. "And that _was_ an order."

Phil gazed down at Clint, so still and terrifyingly small in the hospital bed. Then he met Maria's eyes, felt himself slipping away once again, so he steeled himself and shuffled toward the door.

"Phil," Maria called after him, stopping him at the door.

He turned and had to lean against the frame as Maria shifted to parade rest.

"I was wrong. About Barton. He kept his head _and_ his post and saved our ass back there. I've already put him in for a commendation." Her eyes darted down to Clint before returning to focus on Phil. "Let him know, will you?"

Phil nodded.

"You should tell him how you feel, too."

Phil froze, tried to protest, but any argument he might have called up was stuck in his throat.

"You almost lost him, but you didn't." Maria paused, waited until Phil's heart started beating once again. "You didn't, Phil. Don't waste your second chance."

Phil swallowed then pushed away from the wall. "Not the time, Maria, but thanks."

"Phil?" she questioned. And wasn't that just like Maria? Always pushing, demanding; a great trait at work, but damned annoying when it came to Phil's personal life.

He turned and met her worried glare. "S.H.I.E.L.D. just fucked Barton over, Maria. Do you really think now's the time to declare myself? It'll take time to regain his trust and I'm sure as hell not going to add to the issues that will come from this." He was angry, no _furious,_ on Clint's behalf, but even the surge of righteous indignation couldn't keep Phil from swaying.

Maria's eyes widened, but she acknowledged his words with a quick nod before ducking her head.

Phil left with Maria's murmured apology following him down the bright, white corridor.

~~*~~

Phil cursed the traffic as he sat in a cab, stalled six blocks from the bar. He was only fifteen minutes late, but that spelled his doom. He'd owe Jasper his weight in booze. Swearing, he tossed a few bills at the cabbie and jumped out of the taxi, taking off at a brisk pace despite the heat.

By the time he walked up to their usual table, he had stripped off his jacket and tie, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and seriously considered removing his shirt altogether. He didn't, so his shirt was soaked through at the armpits by the time he slid into the booth. He let out an audible sigh at the cool, dark of the bar, the low jazz playing in the background helping erase the tension in his shoulders. It was nearly perfect, except for the stink eye Maria leveled at him.

Next thing he knew, Jasper had tossed a t-shirt at him and Maria was pulling him out of the booth. "Change," she ordered. Phil complied because he didn't actually have a death wish.

It was a refreshed Phil that joined his friends only to be met with a knowing smirk from Maria as Jasper passed her a twenty.

"Asshole," Jasper glared. "No, Jasper. Not this time. I won't be late, Jasper. You can count on _me,_ Jasper," he mocked. "Next two rounds are on you," he continued, his consonants messy and vowels nasally.

Phil blinked, then cocked his head at Maria. She had that look in her eye, so he kept his suspicions to himself about the last minute phone call from Fury. "Wait. I'm barely half an hour late. How can you be drunk already?"

"Practice," Jasper replied.

Maria tossed back the last of her rum and coke and waved the empty glass at Phil. "He had a headstart."

"I can see that. Why?" Phil asked, ignoring the slashing motions Maria was making.

"It's Jeannie," Jasper answered, his voice hitching and entire body drooping like a flower in the desert. When he met Phil's eyes, he had the most hangdog expression Phil had seen. Pitiful. He arched an eyebrow in inquiry at Maria. She just rolled her eyes while standing.

"Give me your card," she demanded, her palm held out to Phil. "I do not need to hear this again."

Phil passed her his card and then called after her retreating back, "Get wings, too!"

"And nachos!" Jasper shouted.

She waved at them as she made her way to the bar.

Phil sat back in the booth and stared at Jasper. He was going to regret this, but he asked anyway. "So what happened with Jeannie? Thought you'd finally grown a pair and asked her out?"

Jasper lifted his head and glared. "She was in the mess with Quartermain."

"So?"

"She was in the mess with Quartermain. Sharing dessert!"

Maria returned empty handed and Phil frowned up at her. He was thirsty. And behind.

"What?" Maria answered. "The bar's busy. Javier will bring it all out to us."

"Javier?" Phil and Jasper echoed, both taunting.

Maria pointed a finger at Jasper. "You do not get to judge me. Jeannie would have been sharing cobbler with _you_ if you hadn't chickened out."

Phil laughed, feeling smug. The feeling quickly died when she turned a wicked smile toward Phil.

"At least Jasper hasn't been impotently pining for _years._ "

Jasper snorted. "Yeah, _Coulson._ "

"Dick," Phil grumbled.

Jasper continued, ignoring Phil's outburst, "I might be slow, but at least there's no betting pool on _my_ love life."

"A pool?" Phil spluttered. "You are not serious?"

Maria took malevolent joy in explaining in great detail all the various pools and their permutations, from first kiss to firsts that made Phil blush. There was not enough alcohol in the world for this. The worst part was that the oldest pool apparently started only two months after Clint was recruited. Phil was stunned speechless, downing his Scotch in one gulp immediately after Javier handed it to him. "Another please?" he gasped out.

To make Phil's humiliation complete, Jasper chortled aloud at his expression. "If you'd just fuckin' hit that, Phil, I'd be able to vacation in Hawaii _and_ take Jeannie."

"I am not taking relationship advice from either of you," Phil shook his head. 

Maria sipped her drink, one eyebrow arched, daring him to argue. "I do alright, Phil."

"I'm sure as hell better at this shit than _you,_ " Jasper smirked, too damn smug.

Phil growled. "You're the bookie, aren't you? Trying to manipulate the pool."

"Nope," Jasper just gave Phil a shit eating grin. "Fury is."

"Sonuva--" Phil caught himself to Maria's apparent disappointment.

"Ah, c'mon, Coulson. Tell us how you really feel," she goaded.

Phil had to endure a solid hour of ribbing. The only good part was that it had taken Jasper's mind off Jeannie, saving Phil from a drunk _and_ despondent Sitwell.

The jokes and teasing would have gone all night, but Phil's phone began trilling insistently. He'd never been so grateful to be called into work in his life. It was only after the Hydra goons were tossed into lockdown and all the paperwork filed that Phil found himself seriously considering asking Clint out.

~~*~~

Phil gritted his teeth as he waited for confirmation of their extraction. The fury that still flashed through him was barely abated by the very real fear that he could not subdue. Clint had gone against orders, _his_ orders, risking his life to save the Russian operative, _the Black Widow,_ and now he lay quiet, too pale and far too still for Clint, as Romanova hovered, her eyes continuously darting between Clint and Phil.

He received the acknowledgement and closed the satellite phone with a sharp snap. Biting back his frustration, he shoved everything aside, rebuilt his agent mask, and managed to ask in a cool voice, "Am I correct to assume that your presence here means you wish to join S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

She studied him in awkward silence for long moments, but Phil stood his ground, kept their eyes locked; he refused to be cowed by the deadly assassin.

"Da," she replied, her accent thick.

Phil repeated his question in Russian, adding, "I am aware you speak flawless English, Miss Romanova, but we can play this game, if you wish."

"He did not lie about you," she said, her English perfect, no hint of accent.

Phil inhaled through his nose and kept his personal feelings out of this. "I was not there, Miss Romanova, I could not comment on what Agent Barton told you."

Her lips twitched. "Do not worry, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., Clint did nothing to compromise your organization. He merely offered himself as an example of the redemption you offer."

Phil schooled his expression, forced himself to meet Romanova's gaze even though he needed to look away. His heart was hammering in his chest and he felt the itch to run, but he couldn't reveal how much Clint's confidence meant to him. "While we prefer to seek the best out in our assets, we do not hesitate to put down those who betray us."

Phil doubted he'd seen it, but for a moment he swore there was a smile on Romanova's lips and a mischievous glint in her eyes. But that was nothing like the ice queen she'd been dubbed. "I think we understand each other very well, Agent Coulson."

Further conversation would have to wait as the medics arrived at that instant; throwing the small safe house into chaos and making Romanova stiffen. She went without an argument; her bearing graceful and proud despite being cuffed and surrounded by armed guards.

Phil forgot about her then as his world narrowed to concern for Clint.

*~*

Clint recovered, but this time he did so with Romanova at his bedside, not Phil. When he awoke for the first time he was greeted by her large, blue eyes staring at him from porcelain features, her tracking bracelet wide and clunky on the wrist of the hand that rested on Clint's. He blinked and glanced around, looking for something, only to be confronted by armed guards at the door; Phil hoped that Clint was looking for him, but he doubted it. Clint could not see the rest of the guards, the ones outside, the ones stationed at each egress point; nor did he glance at the security cameras. They were new, hadn't been needed for Clint in years, but they were all part and parcel of the compromise. The guards were hand-picked by Phil himself and the security feed was manned 24/7 by high level agents, usually Phil, Jasper, or Woo. All of this done in exchange for Romanova's cooperation, so that she was allowed to sit with Clint while he was confined to medical. 

When Sitwell had repeated Romanova's bargain to Phil, he'd balked. But Jasper knew him and he knew just how much valuable intel Romanova could supply, so he'd gone over Phil's head, directly to Fury with her request. And then Phil stood in Fury's office, taking the full brunt of Nick's tirade. Yes, Phil was compromised when it came to Clint Barton. No, Phil was not objective about Clint Barton, nor was he in the least reasonable about the beautiful redhead that had so turned Clint's head that he disregarded Phil's orders in the field and went off-comms for two days. But Phil could follow orders, no matter his personal feelings on them. Fury stared Phil down until he gave a terse nod in agreement. Fury's _'Don't fuck this up'_ echoed in Phil's ears as he put Fury's plans in place.

So Phil wasn't in Clint's room, at his side where he should be. Instead he was stuck watching the security feed. It wasn't the same but it was all he had now.

To make matters worse, if that was possible, Phil never could set foot in Clint's room without Romanova being there first. That quickly escalated from a minor annoyance, a prickle under Phil's skin, to a full-scale aggravation with a heavy dose of green-eyed monster flaring behind Phil's facade each and every time he found Romanova sat at Clint's side, their fingers entwined, a rare half-smile on her face.

Luckily for Phil's career and reputation, Romanova became Fury's pet project, not Phil's. This gave Phil the space to keep his indifferent mask on during their interactions and no one but the Black Widow was aware that his steps faltered each time he stepped into Clint's room and saw them together. Romanova was elegant and beautiful, refined and perfect, exactly opposite to Clint's raw, almost feral, artless charm. She was calculating, each word, tilt of her head, arch of her back was planned artifice, while Clint had no sense at all of the impact he made. He was utterly unaware of his charisma and Phil was lost to him; all the more because Clint's untamed power set against Romanova's porcelain perfection made him impossibly more attractive.

And the pair of them were a devastating combination. Their partnership throughout Clint's recovery quickly grew into a well-oiled machine in the field, leaving Phil nursing a Clint-sized hole in his heart and on his team. They became legendary and Phil was pityingly grateful when Fury ultimately turned them over to Phil as his assets, declaring they were "the best partnership he'd ever seen" and only Phil's tactical brilliance could improve upon their success.

Clint and Natasha formed a seamless unit, coordinated and controlled as though they could read each other's minds. Clint returned to the safe houses with fewer injuries and a wider smile than before so Phil kept his secret; his agent mask was firmly in place at all times, jealousy and loss hidden away, all the while working to be the best handler either asset had ever known.

That meant that he endured long nights, sometimes weeks, stuck in a safehouse with the pair; their unfettered affection gutting him with each caress and fond smile. But Phil was a professional and he'd known all along that Clint wasn't meant for him. He'd nursed his unrequited crush far too long. Romanova's presence just forced him to put aside childish longing and man up to reality.

The ache never went away, but somehow, somewhere along the way, Romanova became Natasha, maybe when Phil was keeping her from bleeding out while Clint fought a head injury and still made the shot to complete the mission and save all their lives. Her very real fear for Clint's safety and undisguised relief when he returned to the safehouse finally convinced Phil that she wasn't using Clint, or even S.H.I.E.L.D. The Black Widow was part of the team, part of _Phil's_ team, and that admission went a long way to freeing Phil. He could live with Natasha and Clint together because she was good for Clint, cared for him, trusted him, and was his staunch ally against the world. That Clint loved her and reciprocated, that he was as fiercely devoted to Natasha as she was to him sealed the deal for Phil.

He could do this. Their next op, in the Philippines to shut down a Ten Rings' research lab, proved that. He watched over them, orchestrated their discovery and infiltration of the lab, ordered the destruction of the mind-control drugs, and held his breath when their cover was blown. He had to sit and do nothing as they raced through Manila streets on a motorcycle, Natasha clinging to Clint's waist as they dodged the local police _and_ Ten Rings' thugs. Relieved, he allowed a smile when their trackers slipped out of the port and bobbed in the middle of Manila Bay before moving out into the free ocean of the South China Sea. His assets were safe.

Phil arranged for their extraction, handled the aftermath, the cleanup which included soothing the ruffled feathers of the local government, and making a full report to Fury. Only once he was back in New York City, paperwork filed, his assets cleared by medical and off-base, did Phil allow himself to collapse at home with takeout, Scotch, and the significant backlog on his DVR.

He must have dozed because he awoke to Clint and Natasha camped out on either side of him on his sofa, neither worse for the wear, but both weary and vulnerable, the sight of them a welcome relief that he barely registered.

Shaking his head at himself, he smiled and let himself drift away, soothed by their soft, even breaths and the warmth of their thighs aligned with his. If they all drifted to one side, Phil leaning on Clint, and Natasha curled around Phil, no one commented when they woke. And something in Phil eased, settling. He trusted and was trusted implicitly. For the first time he believed he had put his unprofessional feelings for Clint behind him and had graduated to a platonic partnership with both Clint and Natasha.

That belief held throughout their next three missions until Natasha cornered him in a plush safehouse in Paju-si, South Korea and tossed Phil's perceptions on their head. He was busy forging invitations to their mark's dinner party while Clint was out scoping sight lines and procuring the staff uniforms their backup would wear. That left Phil and Natasha alone, the silence comfortable as Phil worked and Natasha gave herself a pedicure. She was gearing up to play Phil's arm candy when she spoke, "Phil, I think it has been long enough."

Phil's attention was pulled from the magnifying glass and the details of the typography. He looked up and blinked at Natasha. "I'm sorry?" he asked, having no clue what she was talking about. He glanced up at the clock to verify that they were on schedule.

"Don't play dumb, sir," she huffed out, but her attention did not shift from her toes.

Phil tugged off the wire framed lenses and rubbed his eyes. "Natasha," he said, voice even, but just barely. He really didn't have time for whatever game she had decided to start.

That made her look up. She was arching a single, perfect brow, eyes boring into him, but there was no smile on her lips, only a slight frown marring her forehead. "Phil. It's time for you to talk to Clint. Tell him how you feel."

Phil spluttered, denying everything, but the flush that crept up his neck and the way his stomach was tripping over itself did nothing to make his protest convincing. When he could speak without choking, he said, "Clint is my asset. Just as you are, Natasha." His voice was thready and wholly unconvincing even to his own ears.

Natasha put the finishing touches on her last toe before looking up. "There is no shame in having feelings for Clint," she stated, her tone almost bored.

Phil frowned. "Why are you doing this? I won't come between you, so why are you trying to push us together? Are you tired of Clint?" Phil felt a surge of protectiveness flash through him and his next words were bitten off and harsh. "If you hurt him--"

Natasha held up a hand to silence Phil, then she sighed. Shaking her head she wiggled her toes, then stretched out on the sofa like a languorous cat in the sun, her lacy undergarments tastefully revealing just the perfect tease of round flesh. She was a work of art sprawled there, something to be admired from afar, painted, set on a pedestal, but not touched, or loved. Gorgeous and deadly described Natasha Romanoff, but no matter how much Phil appreciated the aesthetic, and he _did,_ she was not his type.

The silence stretched for too long and Phil recited form numbers in his head to keep from fidgeting under her intense gaze. Then she stood, her eyes downcast; and somehow she made standing in just her bra and panties demure. But when she looked up and met his eyes, she was the Black Widow once again. She stalked to Phil, kept their eyes locked as she moved. He suddenly felt like the smallest of prey to a very large raptor. Stopping beside him, she dropped a kiss on his forehead and huffed out a soft breath. "That is why, Phil."

He looked up at her in confusion and she smiled down at him, her eyes going soft and fond. "Silly, wonderful, old-fashioned man."

Phil blinked.

"Clint and I stopped sleeping together over six months ago, Phil."

She placed her palm on his cheek, the thumb under his chin to tilt it up. He was disconcertingly close to her decolletage, but in that moment Natasha looked nothing like her alias. Instead she reminded Phil of his older sisters, filled with a secret understanding of the world that Phil would never be privy to.

"Haven't you noticed? Clint's done playing the field, sworn off women and sex, because none of that has worked out for him, but he's lonely and pining. And Clint doesn't do so well alone. So why wouldn't you give it a shot?" Natasha shrugged. "You could not possibly be worse than his last three relationships."

That reference made Phil flinch. Natasha hadn't been around after Bobbi. She wasn't the one who'd had to pick up the shattered pieces of Clint Barton left behind after their implosion. Then there'd been Jessica and that aftermath left Clint hell-bent on self-destruction. Then Clint had fallen for Natasha. Phil held out hope that his favorite asset had finally found what he'd been looking for; that the symbiosis between Hawkeye and the Black Widow in the field would translate into a permanent bond off-mission.

Even with Clint's history and Phil's presence at his side throughout, he found that he had no good answer for Natasha. There was no sense to why he was still pining, still unrevealed, still sitting on the sidelines. Phil Coulson wasn't normally a passive observer, but Phil was scared, terrified actually. Clint meant too much to him and he couldn't merely fill a hole, be the rebound, or even be just a casual fuck-buddy. Phil wanted permanent. Exclusive.

He shook his head, trying to put all of those thoughts and feelings into words, to express to Natasha why he was a coward when it came to Clint, but before he could, Clint burst into the safehouse shouting, "Cover's blown, sir! Leighton's dead. We've got to move!"

All hell broke loose and Phil had no time to think about Clint as anything but the very best asset he had.

~~*~~

Phil introduced himself to Stark when the billionaire strode up to the bar, but felt that he'd gotten agreement far too easily. Stark had been distracted by Virginia Potts, his PA, and had agreed to be debriefed about his capture and escape, but Phil wasn't leaving the charity concert. Not yet.

He moved from the bar to the sidelines, studying Stark's movements and his interactions. There was more here than a man making a break from his former life. For once Phil's gut was perfectly aligned with Nick's orders and he had no qualms shadowing Stark, except that the man was singularly infuriating, testing even Phil's legendary patience. Phil would bet his stripes that sticking to Ms. Potts was as good as sitting on Stark and far more conducive to retaining his sanity.

Speaking of Ms. Potts, Phil had to admit that the dress she'd bought on Stark's dime was stunning, if a little more provocative than Phil'd expected. From his research, Ms. Potts was no fool. She wasn't pining after Stark, but she was playing the long game. And their dance confirmed that her instincts were spot on.

Phil smiled, despite his opinion of Stark, as he held Ms. Potts close. Phil had no doubt that Ms. Potts could hold her own and would likely be leading Stark around by his nose before the man was aware that he'd moved.

Phil's eyes flitted around the room, surveying; he was careful to limit eye contact and avoided more conversation than absolutely necessary. He was here only to observe, not to be memorable. If his eyes lingered on Clint a little longer than any other patron, he'd have the honest excuse of Clint looking stunning and most eyes in the room lingered on him. He was providing Phil's backup and his guise as a wealthy LA home restorer required him to dress the part. And he was dressed to kill, both literally and figuratively in a sharp gray suit with a white shirt and deep violet tie (the only consideration he was given to his desire for every shade of purple on his person). Phil had spared no expense on the suit he'd ordered specifically for this op. From the crowds hovering around Clint, that expense was returning dividends. Clint would definitely be memorable while Phil remained invisible.

Phil had to suppress a satisfied grin when Clint caught his eye. The archer hastily mimed strangling before Phil just shook his head and looked away.

"Sir," Clint whined in his ear. "I'm dying here. Suffocating from this tie and the crowds." He paused and Phil glanced back, worried that the bubble of guests near Clint would wonder why he was talking to himself. But Clint had stepped away from the crush of people. He had moved near the bar on the opposite wall.

Phil lifted his glass to his mouth to hide his words and the smirk that he was smothering. "Barton, that suit fits perfectly. Quit fidgeting like a toddler hyped up on candy and mingle," Phil commanded.

"Fuck that, sir. Mingling's Nat's area."

"Agent Romanoff's skills are needed elsewhere. Suck it up and keep a sharp eye out. Something doesn't feel right."

"Aye, sir," Clint replied, subdued.

Phil glanced over at Pepper who was still dancing with Tony, then back at Clint who had just gifted two women with his best smile. He allowed himself a small sigh as Clint's voice came over the comm, "Well, hello, ladies! Didn't I just see you with Mister Stane?"

Phil grimaced. Why was it that Clint chose to follow the orders that Phil would prefer he didn't?

Phil turned in time to see Pepper and Tony start up the stairs. Phil counted the steps, waiting until he could follow at a safe distance. He kept to the shadows and listened, wondering why it was so hard for Stark to understand what Ms. Potts was trying to say.

The aborted kiss made Phil cringe in sympathy. Stark was too much of a hot mess right now. Then Stark pulled away and she requested, "I would like a-a vodka martini, please. Very dry with olives. A lot of olives. Like, at least three olives."

Phil followed Stark back down to the bar where he was confronted by that reporter, Christine Everhart. Phil was as surprised as Stark about Gulmira, but from careful observation, aided by his ability to read lips, Phil was convinced this was not news to Stane.

After an internal debate, he stepped up to the bar and bought two martinis, one with olives. Then he returned to the roof, waving off Clint's attempt to follow.

"You look thirsty," Phil said as he held out one martini to Ms. Potts.

Ms. Potts turned away from staring out at the city and blinked at him. "Agent Coulson?" She took the drink and downed half the glass. "Did Tony send you?"

If Stark hadn't been so valuable, Phil would have shot him right then and there.

He gritted his teeth and shook his head. "If Tony had asked, I wouldn't have done it, Ms. Potts."

"It's Pepper, please."

"Pepper," he smiled. "It's Phil," he offered, lifting his glass to touch the rim to Pepper's.

"You should ask that guy out," she said around one olive.

"What?" Phil spluttered.

"The one you kept staring at all night," she explained. "He's hot."

"I-I-I..." Phil stammered. Dammit.

Pepper grinned and traded her empty glass with Phil's. "It's fine. Really. It's my job. I have to pay attention."

Phil stared at the empty glass in his hand. He still hadn't gathered the nerve to say something to Clint.

"Don't worry. He was staring at you all night, too," she said, her voice gentle. "Trust me, I'm quite familiar with the look on his face when he watches you."

"He's... I'm... It's not..." Phil stumbled over the words, giving up and bringing the glass to his lips. He swore, then laughed at himself when he realized it was empty.

"Is he one of your agents?"

"Yes, but he's actually more of a specialist on my team."

"So, off limits," Pepper said, not questioning. She gave him a sad smile, then downed her drink. "C'mon. It's my turn to buy a round. I think we both could stand to get wasted tonight."

If the pair bonded over vodka martinis and unattainable cocky assholes, no one was the wiser in the clear light of day.

~~*~~

Phil loosened his tie as he unlocked the door, pushing into the cheap motel room which were the only lodgings available for miles around. With most of the agents having to double or even triple up, Phil sighed aloud, unabashedly grateful that his seniority had earned him a single. His eyes closed as the cool air hit his face. He stripped off the ill-fitting suit jacket and dropped it onto the crappy chair by the door. S.H.I.E.L.D. was paying for his dry cleaning if his good suit was even salvageable, replacing it if not. Fucking freak rain storm in the desert!

Phil didn't bother opening his eyes. He was too caught up in rehashing every word, action, and decision he'd made since first sighting that damnable space hammer. He must be tired. He was even resorting to using Barton's terminology for the as-yet unidentified object, though it was definitely hammer-shaped. And now he was down one good suit _and_ one prisoner. He hoped to hell this was worth it.

Cracking his neck slowly, he continued stripping, hastily unbuttoning his shirt which he dropped on the jacket without looking, before sliding his belt out of its loops. Phil's eyes flew open when he heard Barton gasp, "Sir?"

And, _'Oh, shit!'_ Phil was confronted by a nearly naked Clint Barton stepping into the room in a cloud of steam. Clint... no! His asset -- he didn't dare think of him as anything else -- was flushed from the heat, hair wet and sticking up in tufts, water sliding down his chest and arms. Phil's eyes were glued to a solitary drop that was making its way south, only to disappear in the white towel slung low on Clint's hips and covering little of his modesty.

Rooted to the spot, Phil couldn't find words to explain. Or question.

But the unexpected never stopped Clint. _Barton._ Dammit.

Clint's eyes widened, but then he gave Phil one of those smiles, the one that normally sent Phil's pulse racing, but now that smile coupled with a nearly naked Clint stole Phi's breath and his reason. After the day he'd had he'd be damned if he was sharing with the object of his fantasies. He just didn't have the restraint.

"What the fuck, Barton?"

From Clint's flinch, then the sheepish way he rubbed at the back of his neck, Phil knew he could have been less snippy, but for pete's sake. He wasn't a goddamn martyr!

Clint ducked his head, shoulders drooping, as he said, "Sorry, boss. There was no room at the inn, so you got stuck with me." He cinched the towel tighter, covering the wicked jut of his hipbones, but wouldn't look up at Phil. "Let me just... I'll be out of your hair... " he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, back toward the bathroom.

It was then that Phil looked down at himself and went still. He was standing in an undershirt with his pants hanging open and staring at Clint... _Barton._ But he couldn't kick Clint out.

"What happened? I thought you were bunking with Johnson and Hayes?" Phil knew the room assignments because it was his job to know _everything._ He wasn't stalking Clint.

"After Doctor Blake--" and Clint couldn't finish that statement without snickering.

"Barton," Phil said, barely catching himself. He really was going to have to forget Clint's -- _dammit! Barton's_ \-- first name.

"Sorry, sir," Clint said, straightening. "Um, after the good 'doctor' demolished most of the guards, Doc Ellison took a couple of rooms over as a makeshift infirmary." He grinned, but it was unsteady. "And, ta-da! Here I am!" In trying to make light of the awkward situation, he opened his arms, forgetting the towel, which promptly yielded to gravity and, apparently, to Phil's innermost wishes.

Phil kept his eyes on Clint's face. Well, mostly. He was a spy trained to track sudden movements, after all.

Clint blushed, then shook his head, muttering, "Fuck it!" as he strode to his duffle and bent down to grab clean clothes.

Phil thought he was going to pass out from oxygen deprivation, but he literally had forgotten how to breathe. He had no idea what Clint thought he was doing, but the spots dancing before his eyes disappeared as quickly as Clint did into the bathroom. Although the wink and little smirk he tossed back at Phil was doing nothing to help Phil figure out what he was supposed to do or say in this situation.

Instead of thinking rationally or even gathering his gear to switch with Sitwell, he dropped to the bed and toed off his shoes. A relieved sigh burst from his lips when he tugged off his wet socks. Clint caught him like that, leaning back on his elbows, legs stretched out and white, pruny toes wiggling in the air.

Clint's chuckle pulled Phil up short and he jerked upright. "Goddammit, Barton," he growled.

"Don't mind me, sir. Go ahead and get comfortable," Clint urged. He was leaning against the bathroom door frame, wearing an obscenely tight black sleeveless tee and black SHIELD boxer-briefs, which were notoriously crotch hugging and did nothing to hide Clint's assets. There was a smirk plastered on his face and his changeable blue-green-hazel eyes were sparkling with mischief.

A sudden surge of emotion welled up in Phil. He was too tired to identify the tangle roiling in his gut, but he knew one thing: he was done with running. "Thanks, Barton," he said.

Standing in one smooth motion, he stripped off the rest of his clothes, dropping them where he stood. He grabbed his mess kit and strode to the bathroom, brushing Clint's arm as he passed. "Hope you saved me some hot water," he purred and let the door close on the last syllable. Two could play that game.

Once the door was between them, Phil sagged back against it, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing. It didn't matter that he'd had feelings for Clint for almost as long as he'd known the other man. He hadn't acted on them for a reason, one that seemed pretty far removed at the moment.

With no clear decision forthcoming, Phil gave into exhaustion and stepped into the tiny shower. The shower head was too low and the fiberglass cubicle entirely too small, but there was good pressure and plentiful hot water. Though he was sorely tempted to rub one out to thoughts of one gloriously wet and naked archer, he refrained. The motel was old and the walls paper thin. Despite it being pretty obvious that he thoroughly appreciated Clint's looks, Phil wanted him for much more than that. It had been his heart and determination against such tough odds that had first gotten under Phil's skin. And masterbating to fantasies of Clint when he was _right there_ just didn't seem like a good way to reveal himself.

Phil still lingered under the spray only partially deluding himself that he wasn't avoiding Clint. When he couldn't delay any longer, he finally shut off the water. As he toweled off, he realized his mistake. He clothes were out there. With Clint.

Nerves had kept his cock quiescent as he strode past Clint before, but now he was fully hard. There was no way he could hide that fact beneath a towel. The alternative was to sit in here until he could will away his erection, which was going to be hard -- ha. ha. -- with the visuals of Clint and the knowledge that he was out there lying in bed.

Just as Clint had, Phil muttered, "Fuck it!" and strode out bare-assed naked. He was proud that his steps only faltered a bit when Clint gave a wolf whistle. 

"Save it, Barton," he growled.

Leave it to Clint to do the exact opposite of what Phil expected. There were no jokes, no snark, not even a playful leer. He ducked his head down to stare at the book on his bent knees, shoulders rising toward his ears as he apologized. "Sorry, sir. Won't happen again. Just got the wrong idea..." his voice trailing off as he hunkered down into himself.

 _'Well, fuck!'_ Phil was screwing this up even worse than he'd imagined he would.

Gritting his teeth to keep from sighing aloud, Phil dug into his bag for something to toss on. He stepped into S.H.I.E.L.D. issue boxer briefs, but they did nothing for _his_ assets, then he tugged on a pair of ancient sweats and an old gray tee with a faded Captain America shield on the front. Clint still hadn't looked up from his book.

"Barton," Phil said, but his voice was loud in the stilted silence and it came out harsh and wrong.

"Clint," he amended, tone gentle, cajoling. But Clint still didn't look up or answer.

Biting back frustration and anger at himself, Phil sat on the side of Clint's bed and placed his hand over Clint's book. He was pushing, invading Clint's space, but he'd said he was done running. So now he had to prove it.

"I'm sorry."

That had Clint jerking his eyes up. "What? Why? What do you--?"

Phil tugged the book out of Clint's hands and set it aside, taking care to save Clint's place. "Hush," he scolded, but there was no heat, only genuine concern in his voice. "I've been an ass--"

"You're tired and weren't expecting to have to share," Clint explained, letting Phil off the hook.

"Clint, stop. Just let me say this. Please," Phil didn't need another chance to run. He waited until Clint nodded, eyes wide as he stared at Phil.

"Good. I've been an ass. Not just now, but so many times before. You didn't deserve it then and you sure as hell don't deserve it now. I care about you. I always have. But I wasn't about to be another person that betrayed your trust. And there just never seemed a good time..."

If Phil suspected that he'd screwed this up earlier, there was no doubt that he was _now._

"What are you trying to say, sir?" Clint was looking at him with suspicion clear on his face, and a glimmer of hope. Phil held on to that like a lifeline

"I suck at words... At this shit. Here, let me show you," he said. Then without warning Clint, he leaned forward and pressed a light kiss to his lips.

He pulled back quickly, suddenly scared witless for being so impulsive.

But Clint smiled. It bloomed slowly on his face, starting with a slight twist of his lips until he was grinning bright enough to rival the desert sun. And Phil grinned back. He couldn't help himself. Clint's smile lit the dark places in his soul.

When Clint surged forward and tackled him to the bed, Phil went easily, willingly, opening up for Clint's questing tongue. The kiss turned hungry and dirty and their light clothes did nothing to hide how affected they both were, which was gratifying to Phil's ego. He'd been so worried...

Clint nipped at his lips and lifted to his elbows, but he didn't move his hips away. "You're thinking too hard, sir."

"Keep calling me 'sir' and I'll show you hard," Phil muttered.

Clint took Phil's threat as a challenge and just smirked down at him. He shifted his hips, making Phil very aware of how he felt about things. The movement elicited a soft moan and Clint tried to drop Phil further, pin him more solidly, but Phil was having none of it. He twisted and flipped them, instantly grinding down and resuming the heated kiss.

When Clint bucked up and tested Phil's hold, something in Phil turned hot and possessive. He growled against Clint's lips, nipping them before grinding his cock against Clint's. Clint gasped and Phil took the opportunity to dive in and fully explore Clint's taste. He was instantly addicted, shifted closer, melding them together from chest to knee.

Breathing was over-rated, but Phil's lungs were burning and he wanted to have the stamina to make this last, so he lifted his head a hair's breadth to gaze at Clint. Warm breath gusted against Phil's cheek from kiss-bitten lips. Clint was panting along with Phil, but instead of the frenzied heat that burned through Phil, Clint sprawled beneath Phil, all cool confidence coupled with Clint's changeable eyes, heavy-lidded and smoky. That look was driving Phil mad.

Phil lifted to his elbows and glared down at Clint. He wanted to muss Clint up even more, see if he could make the cocky archer beg for it, break him into little pieces and be the one that put him back together.

"Gonna fuck you into tomorrow, Clint," Phil purred, lips dragging along Clint's stubble until they reached his earlobe and he sucked it into his mouth.

"Go for it, _sir,_ " Clint said, his voice a bit breathless, but still challenging.

For his trouble, Phil bit Clint's earlobe, tongue lingering over the old piercing.

"Hey!" Clint cried out, squirming.

"Can you lie still?" Phil huffed against Clint's ear, a wicked grin on his face.

"Of course I can."

Phil snorted. "Then lie back and think of England."

"What the fuck?" Clint frowned as Phil stood.

He leaned down, kissing Clint quiet. They were both panting again when Phil finally straightened. He ran a hand through Clint's mussed hair, pushing it off his forehead, his tone gentle as he soothed his soon-to-be lover. "Gotta get supplies."

"Oh. Oh!" Clint grinned.

Phil shook his head. How was it that Clint could be both casual asshole and adorable little boy all at once? However he did it, Phil was lost to him ages ago. That he was risking this now seemed crazy, but worth it. Phil dropped a couple of condoms, some lotion, and a tube of lube onto the bed before clambering back over Clint.

"Damn, boss. You have plans?"

"Indeed I do." Giving Clint a little smirk, he piled his black tie next to Clint's head without saying a word, just to watch Clint's reaction. It was a good one, throat moving and pupils widening as he licked his lips.

"What's the tie for?"

"Remember who's room is next door?"

Clint gave a jerky nod.

"If you can't be quiet, I'll gag you with it." Phil was matter of fact as he settled more fully between Clint's legs. "What we do here doesn't need to be grist for the S.H.I.E.L.D. rumor mill."

"Shit, sir! You're not fooling around." He wrapped his legs around Phil's calves, holding Phil in place.

"I'm done wasting time."

There must have been something about Phil's voice because Clint gave a little shudder and wrapped his arms around Phil's neck to tug him close. Then they were kissing again, a slow, thorough exploration. Clint's tongue proved useful for more than smart-assed mockery. Despite the desire flashing through his veins, he'd never been more content to simply kiss a lover. They were both still mostly dressed, which, when Phil realized, he set about changing.

He divested them of their shirts and even settled on their sides facing each other to allow a more detailed reconnaissance. Unfortunately, Clint's aim was as accurate as ever. He forced Phil to bite his cheek when he found the one spot along Phil's third rib that was ticklish. Phil retaliated by nipping a line down Clint's torso, the bites leaving a mottled red trail from collarbone to navel. To continue his exploration, Phil had to strip off Clint's briefs. He obliged by arching and letting Phil slide them down his powerful thighs, which Phil explored with his tongue, following the path set by his palms.

He lingered at the back of Clint's knee before returning higher. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of leather, soap, and musk. His mouth watered at the gorgeous man sprawled beneath him. When he reached the junction of Clint's thigh and hip, Phil left a sucking bruise, marking him and making him gasp, hands flying to Phil's shoulders. Phil gazed up at Clint and knew what he wanted, what he had to have.

"Turn over," he said, voice gone low and raspy.

Clint moved and Phil was gratified to see that he was flushed, his chest heaving, no longer cool and composed. It was a start.

Phil settled on Clint's hips, cock slotting into his crack. He gasped, eyes slamming shut as he counted in his head. He wanted this too badly to fuck it up, but his desire was already white-hot. He inhaled through his nose, slow and even.

"You okay up there, sir?" Clint asked, his voice muffled by the pillow he had wrapped his arms around.

For his archer's insolence, Phil lifted to his knees and slapped each buttcheek once, startling a moan out of Clint.

Phil chuckled, thinking he should explore that reaction at some point, but right now that wasn't what he wanted. He soothed the fading red marks with his palms. "Hush, now. I asked if you could stay still--"

"You didn't say I had to be quiet," Clint countered.

"Yes, I did. Now quit arguing or I'll get out the zip ties to go with the gag," Phil threatened.

Clint's hips ground into the bed as he moaned even louder.

 _'Shit!'_ Clint was going to be the death of him. At least that was better than dying in a convenience store robbery gone wrong.

Phil shook away that thought and began to concentrate his attention on Clint. He squeezed some lotion into his palms, rubbing them together to warm them before he began to massage Clint's shoulders and upper back. Over the years, he'd seen Clint naked enough times, even touched him, but none of those times felt like this, where he had permission to linger, touching, exploring, fingers gentle over each scar as his palms and the heels of his hands worked in the lotion and soothed out the tightness from Clint's muscles.

"What's this for, boss?" Clint moaned as the tension disappeared and he relaxed further, limbs going slack, head tilting to the side so that he could breathe.

"You were out in the storm in a metal bucket, which I had to order you there. It was dangerous and utterly stupid on my part, but you never questioned me… except to take your bow. I'm sorry. If that lightning had--"

"It's part of the job," Clint shrugged his shoulders.

Phil breathed in through his nose. And right here was one of the reasons he hadn't started this thing between them. He was in love with Clint Barton who could be a cocky, snarky, sonuvabitch, but he was also dedicated, focused, with a strangely lacking self-preservation instinct. And Phil didn't want to be the one to order him into dangerous situations. He didn't trust anyone else to do it, either. Thus, his quandary.

"Phil?" Clint pulled his focus back to the important matter at hand.

"Just thinking, Clint."

Clint shifted beneath him, twisting such that he could meet Phil's eyes. "Well, stop. For just this once. Our jobs are dangerous. Fact of life. I don't want to lose you, but odds are--"

Phil pressed forward, silencing Clint with his lips, tongue and a little bit of teeth. This wasn't the time to think about _anything._

Despite the awkward position, the kiss and all that slick, bare skin sliding against his forced Phil's head back into the game. He took one long, slow breath in and opened his eyes. "We'll beat the odds, you and I," he vowed, then kissed Clint silent once again.

When all trace of doubt and worry had been replaced by blind hunger and fierce desire, he drew back, nipped Clint's lips and shifted them back over. He blanketed Clint with his body and began to rain teasing kisses over his back, nipping at each vertebrae as he slid smoothly lower and lower until his lips rested right above the swell of Clint's fabulous ass. His tongue darted out to lave at the two dimples before he pressed his lips to his right buttcheek and sucked, drawing in breath through his nose as he stayed there. His tongue lapped at the fearsome bruise he was creating while Clint jerked and swore, bucking under him as his hips ground into the mattress.

"Fuck! Goddammit!" Clint cried out, but he wasn't pulling away.

Satisfied, Phil pulled away with a little pop. "Mine," he declared.

Clint rolled under him, glaring at him with hot eyes and a feral smirk. "Gonna piss on me, too, babe?"

Phil pushed Clint back down, nudged one bent knee higher, opening him up. "If that's what it takes."

"Kinky, possessive bastard," Clint moaned.

Phil leaned forward and murmured against Clint's ear, "You have _no_ idea."

Clint shuddered and Phil grinned.

He reached for the lube and spread some on his finger while he worked his way down Clint's torso once again. There was something about Clint's back that Phil loved. It was more than the toned muscles and tanned skin, the subtle silvery scars that marred the perfect flesh; Clint had a knobby spine and it was that, the incredible organ that allowed this man to accomplish feats that no ordinary human should be able to do, it was all there, all controlled in that sheath of bone covered by a thin bit of flesh. And Phil was so fucking grateful that even with every injury, and there were myriads, they were faint a roadmap on his back, Clint had survived whole and intact. And Phil intended to take care of him and see that he stayed that way.

Phil's breath hovered over Clint's ass as he nudged his other knee wider.

"Make up your damned mind. I'm not a contortionist!" Clint grumbled, but moved.

Phil laughed against his skin. "Don't bullshit me, Clint. You're almost as flexible as Natasha." He teased Clint's hole with the lubed finger, then began a gentle and thorough prep with one hand while the other continued to explore and touch, fingers skating over muscles and firm flesh until he had three fingers teasing Clint and his other hand was urging Clint to lift more to his knees.

"I'm ready, already!" Clint complained.

"Are you?" Phil disagreed. "You're still mighty coherent."

"And you're using goddamned ten dollar words on me!" Clint growled as he rose to his knees. He turned and pierced Phil with a pleading stare. "I'm begging you, do something besides tease me!"

Phil could never really deny Clint anything and he found himself kneeling up, fitting perfectly between Clint's thighs and sliding home before he could think about it any longer. He never stopped, never needed to, not with Clint urging him on, harder, faster, stronger. It was all so perfect, the long lines of Clint's back, how his hips felt when Phil grabbed on, the way he clenched and tightened around Phil's cock, until there was nothing but warmth and slick and motion, a coiling, slow build-up that he couldn't fight.

Phil nearly forgot himself, nearly cried out. He gasped, then straightened, pulling Clint with him so he could reach his cock. Clint pressed a splayed a palm on the wall to support them, the other reaching behind him to grab Phil, to make a connection.

He mouthed Clint's shoulder as the shifting made everything impossibly tighter, hotter, better. But Clint was moaning loudly so one hand covered his mouth while the other tugged his cock. It was a juggling act that helped keep Phil from losing it first.

Then Clint shattered, biting the fleshy part of Phil's palm as he came, warm come spurting over Phil's hand and fingers suddenly playing along Phil's ribs. Phil thrust faster, chasing his own release, hot on the heels of Clint's and he came with a burst of laughter. He lost his hold on Clint and they both tumbled to the bed in a messy, tangled, heap.

When Phil could breathe without gasping, he elbowed Clint. "Dammit, Barton!"

Clint was laughing, eyes sparkling as he leaned over Phil. "What's the matter, boss? Ticklish?"

Then Clint was kissing him again and Phil wrapped him up tight, holding on for dear life.

*~*

Jasper looked at Phil suspiciously the next morning and he didn't stop giving Phil the stink eye as they drove out to the newest anomaly.

"What?" Phil finally snapped.

"Just noticing that you look awfully calm for a man who slept in the same room with the object of his fantasies." He gave a wicked little chuckle to mark the last phrase.

"So I have you to thank for last night?" Phil asked, careful to keep his voice controlled and cold. He wanted Jasper to sweat. "Do you have any idea how badly last night could have fucked over this whole operation?" He allowed himself a soft growl of frustration, but it had more to do with the memory of waking up entangled with a naked and thoroughly fucked out Clint than anything remotely related to strange space debris.

Jasper licked his lips. "Yes?"

"You don't know?"

"Dammit, Phil! Of course I arranged it. I just thought--"

"You thought I would compromise the integrity of a major operation simply to get into Barton's pants?" He had to hold back laughter, but risked a sideways glance at Jasper who was starting to fidget.

Phil bit the inside of his cheek and slowly turned his head to glare at Jasper who quickly looked away. "Sorry, boss," he squeaked out.

The smile he gave Jasper was malevolent, while inside he was laughing so hard it threatened to burst forth. "Do not let it happen again."

"Aye, sir," Jasper sighed, then slumped down in his seat.

*~*

Clint surprised Phil, tackling him to the bed and clinging when Phil returned to their shared room. "What the hell, Clint?"

"What the hell yourself, boss?" Clint growled, hands running over Phil's dusty and soot-smudged suit. "I saw the footage. What the fuck was that thing? And there you were just strolling up to it without a second thought..."

Clint's fingers were curled tightly around Phil's biceps. Phil's skill was his attention to detail, but he sure wasn't earning that paycheck right now. It shouldn't have taken him so long to figure out that Clint had been worried about him. Phil sagged into the mattress, allowed Clint whatever he needed to reassure himself. "I'm fine, Clint. Just a little singed."

Clint didn't answer immediately and Phil wasn't about to complain as he was rewarded with leisurely kisses and being stripped bare by calloused but gentle fingers.

"Is Donald really Thor? As in the actual god of thunder?" Clint asked from where he was tugging on Phil's knotted laces.

"It appears so," Phil answered. Taking pity on Clint, he toed off his shoes, freeing Clint to work on his belt.

"Well, hell, sir. I don't know what to say about that."

"None of us do, Clint. That's why the director has demanded a detailed report on his desk first thing Monday morning."

Clint blinked up at Phil. "Sonuvabitch. You have to work?"

Phil pulled Clint up, kissing him thoroughly when their mouths aligned. "I do. But I have time for you first."

"Yeah?" Clint asked, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

"Always."

*~*

Phil knew that the S.H.I.E.L.D. rumor mill was particularly effective, but he was sure he'd put the kibosh on any mention that he and Clint shared a room. He couldn't afford word of that getting out, because then there would be questions that would lead places he wasn't sure Clint wanted to go.

But they hadn't discussed it, of course not. They had been too busy screwing like rabbits, but Phil knew Clint and he was pretty confident that their secret was safe.

When he stepped into the commissary, he realized just how wrong he was.

Nick Fury was sitting at a table against the far wall, a grinning Clint Barton at his right, as a steady stream of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents filed past the director.

If Phil had any sense, he'd turn around and head for the hills; Bulgaria, to join Natasha, might be far enough.

But Phil didn't do that. Instead he crossed to Nick and Clint, blinking in disbelief as he realized that Nick was paying off on the betting pools. From the pile of cash and the glare Nick kept tossing Clint's way, Phil suspected that his archer had rigged more than a few of the pools in his favor.

"I'd fire your ass for insubordination if I thought I had a chance in hell of enforcing it," Nick declared.

"Sir?" But Phil was smiling inside even if he retained his infamous calm exterior.

"Don't play dumb with me, Coulson." He waved at the wide-eyed agents behind Phil. "Get the hell out. All of you. I'll pay off on all valid claims... Tomorrow."

"As for you, Agent Coulson," Nick started, crossing his arms over his chest and doing his level best to ignore the maniacally grinning archer practically vibrating in the chair next to him. "Do you have something to report?"

Phil's lips slowly curved upward and he could feel the whole room inhale as he channeled the warmth bubbling up inside him into a wide grin. He heard a few exhales and then a smattering of faint whispers started.

"The report from New Mexico is on your desk, if that's what you mean?"

"You know damn good and well that's not what I was referring to!" Nick shot back, the deep furrows on his brow telling just how annoyed he was at the situation.

Phil glanced over at Clint who was leaning forward on his elbows, his eyes bright and sparkling with his trademark smirk softened into a genuine smile of pleasure. Phil could see his mark on Clint's neck, the bruise barely peeking above Clint's collar. Then Clint cocked his head and gave Phil a tiny nod before leaning back completely comfortable with whatever Phil had to say.

"Well, sir, there are some additional forms requiring your attention on your desk. Two change in status forms as well as two vacation requests for Agent Barton and myself. I have taken the liberty of already scheduling the time off since we are both long overdue for it."

The crowd behind Phil burst into applause.

Nick shook his head. "Asshole," but he gave a half smile which was as much acceptance as Phil was going to get in public. "Bout fuckin' time," he muttered. "You could have done it a week earlier though."

Phil ignored the gathered agents and met Clint's happy grin with a small one of his own. "Barton, with me. There's a beach chair with my name on it."

"Aye-aye, sir!" Clint hopped up, gathered his probably ill-gotten gains and strode to Phil's side.

The world had changed, had turned into some mad writer's fantasy. Gods and monsters were real, the threats ever changing, but the only thing that mattered, this man at his side, was a constant and Phil couldn't be happier.

The End


End file.
